


Narrowed Focus

by MarisFerasi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Coparenting, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Cohabitation, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Insecurity, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sappy, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Unreliable Pronouns for Unrelaible Presentations, becoming comfortable, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: Warlock starts to notice when Nanny doesn't stay in her own rooms at night. He's gone looking for her, sleepless in the night, only to see a tall spindly shadow moving across the dark lawn toward Brother Francis' cottage.Sometimes, if he's awake early enough, he sees her coming back before the sun is even up, in the same clothes as yesterday and her curls loosened around her shoulders. One day, he remembers to ask over breakfast.Or: forced proximity leads to rumours of an affair, which leads to even closer proximity. Aziraphale and Crowley can hardly complain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nanny and Francis learn how to navigate their new living expectations, while Crowley and Aziraphale get closer than ever. 
> 
> Smut next ch. 
> 
> I write mostly on my phone (new laptop coming TOMORROW as I prepare to begin Graduate School!)   
All that to say, any and all mistakes or timeline lapses are my own. Please make me aware of inconsistencies so I can edit them out. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Dowling Estate, 2017. One year before the Apocalypse:**

"It wasn't like _that_. Truly, it didn't start so... uh." 

_Okay_. 

Aziraphale stops pacing his bookshop, shakes his head, and starts again. "I know, Gabriel. Living with a _demon_, of all things. It's not like we went in, planning or, or... _expecting_ this to happen. It was...thrust upon us. I only went to make sure the demon didn't raise the child to be evil. I was counteracting his wily nature by teaching the antichrist good, _heavenly_ behavior to assure his allegiance to our side, of course." 

There. That should convince Heaven of _exactly_ why he had been living with Crowley for a large percentage of the last decade, should they bother to check in. He sighs and drops into his desk chair, head in his hands. 

He can't even convince _himself_, and he's _clearly an idiot_. How's he supposed to convince Head Office that he hasn't been diddling a demon under their noses for _six thousand years_? It's barely been six years. He's lost all the backbone he used to have. Staying away from Crowley isn't an option any longer; frankly, it hasn't been for a _while_. Now it's about surviving their superiors when they inevitably go to trial. 

_Right. Rehearse the beginning again_. 

_Ahem_. 

**The Dowling Estate, 2010:**

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis started working on the Dowling Estate the very same day, only a few hours apart. They were unexpected, unannounced, and- perhaps miraculously- _exactly_ what Harriet has in mind to replace the two workers who abruptly left the previous week. 

Warlock is now three years old, curious, and a complete hellion to manage. 

Crowley is quietly pleased, so far. He's always been a big fan of kids, the small ones anyway. They're endlessly questioning and often surprising. 

Aziraphale had slowly trickled a few books into the tiny gardener's house (really just a studio space and a wall of a kitchen, with a smaller room housing a shower stall and toilet) along with a suitcase of clothes which he expands and retracts as needed for his disguise, and had set about miracling the sprawling gardens into the most sumptuous space the Dowlings had ever seen. Plants bloom out of season and overnight. Crowley'd tried to tell him to keep a lid on the more suspicious vegetation-- like the fruit trees-- and stomped his foot and _demanded_ that Aziraphale use the greenhouse for certain flowers and the vine vegetables. "You'll blow our cover in a matter of days, you--" he'd hissed, growling the last note. Crowley does know more about plants, Aziraphale reasons, so he does as he's instructed. 

Warlock loves being outside, chasing butterflies and bees, picking worms out of the dirt and flinging them at the ducks in the pond, and generally being a dirty, curious little boy. Nanny brings him outside to the garden daily, as long as the weather holds, and lets him play in the fresh air. He clings to Francis when they're outside as much as he clings to Nanny when they're inside, or gone. 

For the first few years they're there, Nanny and Brother Francis orbit one another oddly, never speaking directly unless accompanied by the child or one of their employers. 

They spend their off days together, though.

Crowley wills up weak excuses such as "comparing notes on the child" and takes Aziraphale to the theatre, to museums, meets him on the tops of busses, behind spread newsprint. They dine and talk and drink and laugh. This is the most they've enjoyed any assignment in millennia, and it's hard to deny that it's because they're working _together_. 

Eventually those little, furtive, clandestine meetings turn into weekly drinking binges on the springy sofa in the angel's tiny cottage. 

These, in turn, manifest into almost nightly occurrences. 

Some nights, Aziraphale opens the door and Crowley slides in with a coy smile, tired but eager to talk and sit in the same room with a friend and relax. 

Others, though, the angel simply looks up when the door clicks open and sees Crowley coming in like a shadow, plucking off earrings and jewels, kicking away heels and slouching with an exhausted air that really defeats the purpose of calling this get-together a "meeting" at all. Nothing of import is ever really discussed.

On (more than) one of these bone-weary nights, Aziraphale watches Crowley take the pins out of his hair, letting fat red curls drop against his collarbones, and wishes he was the one searching for cold metal in all that soft warmth. He wants to peel that persona away, see his friend underneath. Feel him. 

Instead, he pours the wine heavily and passes a glass along the table, crossing his legs against any unwarranted thoughts. 

___

Warlock, once he's old enough to get out of his own bed and come looking for cuddles, starts to notice when Nanny doesn't stay in her own rooms at night. He's gone looking for her, sleepless in the night, only to see a tall spindly shadow moving across the dark lawn toward Brother Francis' cottage through an upstairs window. Sometimes, if he's awake early enough, he sees her coming back before the sun is even up, in the same clothes as yesterday and her curls loosened around her shoulders, carrying her heels.

One day, he remembers to ask over breakfast.

"Why'd'you have so many sleepovers with Brother Francis?" He asks, mouth oozing chewed cheerio paste and milk at the corners. Nanny is secretly pleased at his appaling table manners, but her heart stops dead at the implication. 

The Dowlings are also at the table, and everyone freezes. 

"_What_, child? I do--"

"I came to find you the other night. I had a nightmare. And I saw you, you were going over to his house. And then this morning I saw you coming back before I was supposed to be up. I was spying," he shrugs one shoulder, as carefree as any child. She briefly hopes that his toddler speech is garbled enough that his parent's didnt quite catch any of that. 

"Uh...mpf...ngk," Nanny balks, sure her credibility is ruined. _Now how the blazes am I supposed to raise this child to be normal and not destroy all of existence if I'm ssssacked_?! 

"Perhaps they were just planning your day, Warlock, sweetie. Games and lessons?" Harriet supplies, a wink to Nanny whose spine is still locked down with a wave of furious anxiety. 

"Oh, okay!" Warlock agrees, and slips off his chair to chase some swallows that have landed on the birdbath. 

"Apologies," Nanny croaks, stiff with awkward tension. "I thought I was...being discreet." 

"You can't hide _anything_ from kids, I swear," Thaddeus chuckles. "We don't mind." 

If possible, Nanny stiffens further in her seat. _What_?

"What Tad _means to say_, is: we know you're both probably lonely and we don't mind that you're... together. If you are." 

"Yes. Alright. I'll-- oh, goodness he's in the bog. That's my cue," Nanny gets up and darts away quickly, still reeling at the idea that being caught being close with Aziraphale by an employer doesnt _necessarily_ _mean certain death,_ and chases Warlock down where he's already up to his waist in the pond, algae staining his shorts. 

"Out'a there, boy, yer disturbing the fish and that beautiful heron!" Francis calls, wading in as Nanny approaches. He waves her away from the soggy bank, getting himself dirty instead as he fishes the boy out and sets him in the grass. "We must have love for all creatures, and you harm their home, stomping around like that." 

"Nanny says living things are only fit to be crushed under my bootheels!" Warlock shouts back, green shoes flailing as he's hoisted and carried back to shore. Francis sighs and squats down, taking Warlock's tiny shoulders in his huge hands. 

"Don't you listen to her. You listen to _me_," he winks, letting the child go as Nanny approaches and takes his wee hand. 

"Tonight," Crowley whispers, leaning down as if to stand their ward up. Aziraphale nods once, smiling lightly, and watches Nanny haul Warlock back into the house to change his wet clothes. Francis shuffles off to his cottage to miracle himself dry. 

___

"They think _what_?" Aziraphale coughs, choking on a mouthful of wine. It had gone down the _wrong pipe_, as they say. Crowley rolls his eyes and harrumphs. 

"The boy has seen me leaving and coming in the night. He brought it up in front of them. They think we're..." he flaps a hand between them, grimacing. "Pffft." 

"Oh. And?" _Well. That grimace was not terribly encouraging_, thought Aziraphale.

"Said it's not a problem. Said we can do as we like, seeing as we're both alone and _lonely_." Crowley is staring at the blank wall, one shoulder lifted and dropped in a shrug. Aziraphale purses his lips. 

_Well then. _

"I wonder, dear boy... what if you. Well." 

"Spit it out, angel." 

"What if you... moved in here? With me? No more clandestine meetings, or furtive going-away on the week ends we have off. We could still _have_ our days off, go and do what we like--to- together or not-- but... you're not having to go back and forth every night?" He almost cracks his wine glass, squeezing it so hard as he watches his dear friend's reaction slowly etch across his face. It comes off as shock, and then vague horror, and then slides into Crowley's usual careful mask of indifference. "You're already clearly _exhausted_ most nights, yet you're the one doing the coming and going, as you said. It's unreasonable, when we could both simply be _here _at the end of each day." 

Crowley goes incredibly still where he's bent in half in the chair across from the angel in his tiny dining area. He's still in his oxblood and black dress, the bow at his throat undone and loose over his collarbones. He's currently frozen with his fingers rolling down a stocking, the donut of the other laying by his heels a few feet away, suspenders dangling loose around the hem of the dress at upper thigh. 

Aziraphale had been watching Crowley undress with a casual air, but he is itching all over inside from the little show. Long fingers, ending in well-shaped, dark nails, plucked and unsnapped each suspender, the curl of dark fabric rising and falling as the demon lazily shifted the skirt around, showing Aziraphale probably more than he ought to, or maybe more than he _meant to_ as he had parted his narrow thighs and started on the other stocking. 

"You... you _want_ _me_ _here_?" Crowley eventually splutters, quiet and almost shy. He frowns, peering back at the angel over dark lenses.

Aziraphale tuts.

"Take those _blasted things off_, it's only us here. And yes, I don't see why _not_, dear boy. We're already meeting constantly, living in closer proximity than ever before." He smiles warily when Crowley drops his glasses on the table and stares back at him. He feels like a field mouse caught in the strike zone of a snake.

"Yes, but...angel, that's a _lot_ closer than we already are. We have separate rooms now, separate _houses_, even. Here...we'd be in the same room, all of the time. There's only one bed, it's just right there, the kitchen and sofa and bed are _all right here_." 

"Yes, well. I don't sleep, so the bed is yours. And we don't need to eat or cook, so the kitchen is primarily just a big drink station, really." 

"And clothes? The loo?" 

"You have to be up before me. I don't suspect any of that to be an issue."

"_Nudity_." Crowley deadpans, tossing the other roll of his stocking toward his heels, painted toes stretching and burying into the lush carpet. Aziraphale swallows at the roll of muscle travelling up the demon's calf and back down as he flexes his whole body long and lean over the back of the chair, cracking his serpentine spine once or twice. The dress rides up, teasing at very-upper-thigh by now. 

"Wh--nudity?" Aziraphale croaks, eyes flicking back to the demon's face. They drift down again when Crowley leans forward, elbows on the table, slim legs crossing. 

"We'll be largely in one room, occasionally in two, every night and morning for the next several years, angel. You're gonna see more of me than usual, and I expect that will go both ways. One shower, no changing room.... How will you handle that?" 

"I know _for a fact_ you snap your clothes on and off, so I don't see how--" 

"No, you know how _Anthony J Crowley_ does it, and only what I've _told you._ Nanny Ashtoreth _gets dressed_. Rolls her hair, does her makeup, puts on a garter and little knickers and stockings and a bra and a dress, pins a hat on. The whole nine yards." 

Aziraphale flounders, eyes skirting over the detritus of Crowley's removal of most of those steps at their feet, the rolled stockings and shoes, hair pins littering the table between them, the clack of suspender slips against the wood of the chair beneath Crowley's arse. "Oh." 

"Yeah. _Oh_. It takes _time_, I'll be _in the way_. The cottage simply isn't--" 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, huffs an annoyed breath, and brings his hand down in a swift snap. The room shudders and expands, walls fabricating to close off a small bedroom and enlarging the water closet into a proper bath with a vanity appearing out of nowhere. There's even closet space in the bedroom now, and a set of drawers. 

It is, perhaps, one of his more frivolous major miracles.

Crowley glances around the new space and turns back with a small, soft smile. One of the more genuine ones Aziraphale remembers fondly, and hasn't seen in centuries. He dips his chin and the smile turns wicked. "_Angel_. You could have just said you _wanted_ me here. I would have come." _And damn him_, Aziraphale thinks, chewing on his lip. _He purred like that on purpose. _

"Yes, well. I told you, it will be easier now." Aziraphale finishes his wine, and looks everywhere but at Crowley as they talk until the demon leaves when the sun turns the sky a murky grey.

\---

Aziraphale, weak as he is when it comes to a certain, very specific other (occult) being, is sat at his small table a week later, munching toast and coffee while Crowley paints Nanny Ashtoreth onto his skin and into his posture and darts between the bedroom and bath in a slim column of darkness and exposed skin. 

His wretched heart _aches_ to hand Crowley the stockings that are set out on the bed, get on his knees and roll them up each slender calf, smooth out the wrinkles, clip on the suspenders. Instead, he fiddles miserably with a hair pin which has been abandoned on the table.

He keeps it sealed up, inside, all this endless, ocean-wide love he has for the other being in the next room. Now is not the time. (_Don't go unscrewing the lid_. That damned Thermos was his _heart, all of his trust_, handed over right there in the dim red neon light in the Bentley, heart flying into a million pieces, and 1967 just _wasn't the time_.) But is it now, actually? Could it be? The world could end in a few short years, and they've been playing at this song and dance for millennia.

Aziraphale _knows_; before he even saw the ocean or its tides for himself, he felt the first little, frothy wave of _love_ nibble at his bare toes on a stone wall, facing East, in the very Beginning. And the waves have only grown stronger since, as their intense gravity toward one another increases. He was almost bowled clean over from the force of it in the Globe, and again in the Bastille (that one was the strongest, perhaps, as Crowley hadn't been told where Aziraphale was; he'd sensed the danger, and simply appeared by his side). And then, once more, with all the force of a bomb cracking over his head in 1941. Crowley's waves of love have been steady, but no longer _overwhelming_, since that damn-blasted statement of his-Aziraphale's- when he handed over the Holy Water. Crowley had taken the hint, and has kept a respectable distance, kept his hands up and head tilted away. Now his little lapping waves are more like a leaky faucet, little dribbles he can't help, can't quite contain.

Most of the time, Aziraphale misses the gentle pulse of those insistent waves, and reaches out just enough; he makes a call, sends a note, and the tenderest little flutter of love settles against his chest when they meet up, reminding him of Crowley's consistent devotion. 

Aziraphale is certain though that it's still a distance he can easily reach across, no more than an armspan. Wingspan, surely. He's certain that Crowley would still come, if he held out a hand. 

But they're on a job-- _together_, for once-- and this proximity, seeing that beautiful creature in the other room every single day has to be enough, for now. The little shy smiles and pulses of pleased contentment he gets from Crowley when the demon comes home, the fleeting touches as they pass one another in the small house, the furtive glances across the lawn... they have to be enough. 

Aziraphale clears his throat and calls out: "Anything I can do for you, my dear?" _I want to pull those pins back out myself, searching that soft, beautiful hair for more and more until I can get a proper grip of just you. Pull you close, make you want it, too, if you don't. I think you do. I don't think you ever stopped. _He clears his throat again, blinking hard to get the image out of his eyes.

Crowley pokes his head out of the loo, fingers wound up in his hair and makeup done. "Pick out an outfit? I was thinking the green top and black pencil skirt, the textured one, sort of like stippling?" Aziraphale nods and gets up, going to the bedroom closet. 

Crowley comes out a few minutes later and a dark emerald shirt is on the bed; not the one he had thought of but still. It's green. He smirks and picks up the bra he left on the corner of the bed, watching Aziraphale stare into the void of the closet. But Aziraphale is blinking, confused, at the skirts. "Ah...which?" Every skirt in here is black, and most of them are textured. 

Crowley smiles with a hint of teeth and comes around, pressing close in the small space between the bed and closet doors, snatching the fabric he meant. He is in the garter and stockings and knickers already, long legs smooth and sleek and masked in sheer black nylon to upper-thigh, where lace winds around under the curve of his bum (which is shockingly rounded--_had he added that??)_. There are tiny red bows on the garter clips, and Aziraphale swallows, watching his friend put on the bra and then fill in the small, padded cups with the slightest hint of breasts. There is the barest curve of a bulge at the front of those tiny black knickers, tantalising, but Aziraphale forces his gaze back to Crowley's face. 

"All I have to do is get dressed and expand, really," he jokes weakly. "Your job is much harder." 

"Hmm. Pity I didnt take the garden gig, then. I could be the simple, rough gardener in my peasant's shirt and canvas jodhpurs, handing single flowers to the hot, curvy nanny when she bothers to come close enough and spare me a glance." Crowley winks and tucks the blouse into the skirt, zipping it up at the back. "Can you hook this for me?" He turns, presenting his nape to Aziraphale, who flounders for a moment, mind still reeling at the image Crowley just painted. There is a loose button and hoop at the apex of the neckline, and he buttons them together, letting his fingers linger on hot skin, smooth the straight black line of crepey fabric that trails down Crowley's spine until it disappears under the high waist of the skirt. 

Crowley doesn't move away, doesn't tense like Aziraphale expects him to, but his breath is shallow. "Thank you," he murmurs, and steps away to gather and adorn minimalist jewelry and a slender watch (which Aziraphale reaches out and helps fasten, earning another small smile), slip into low heels, and gather a jacket over an elbow. 

"Want to get dinner tonight?" Crowley asks, checking a small wallet and then snapping it shut. He's miracled small dark glasses onto his face, and Nanny's impassive, blank stare is fixed on the angel. He swallows under such scrutiny, imagined or no. 

"Of course. Think about what you'd like, I'm alright with anything." 

"Right. See you soon, angel," and Nanny leaves, shutting the door with a snap. 

Aziraphale feels aroused and bereft, something of a norm lately, and stands there for a few moments. He decides a cold shower and a good bout of weeding are in order, something physical to clear the mind. 

It won't work, but he can try. 

___

Things continue much the same for a couple years. They've done this forever-- each ignoring his own baser interests in favor of avoiding acute embarassment-- just not with this level of proximity. 

Aziraphale does indeed see Crowley in the nude with increasing regularity, though more often than not he is still in tiny black briefs, excepting a few quick-streaking laps between the bedroom and loo on occasion. It's becoming obvious that he's (probably) doing it on purpose. 

Warlock is five now, asking questions all the time and he's suddenly determined that now that primary school has started, he can _not_ fall asleep without Nanny there to either read or sing to him. Crowley comes home to the cottage later and later these days, and is always dead on his feet. He typically swallows a glass or two of wine, undresses to some degree, and crashes face-first into the bed within an hour of coming home. 

After one weekend off, he comes back late in a sunday night. It's almost morning, actually, and the demon is alight with nervous energy, but clearly physically exhausted. They had not spent the weekend together, but rather each used the opportunity to check in with head offices and get a bit of space from one another. 

That, as it turns out, had been a poor choice for Crowley. His anxiety is through the proverbial roof. Aziraphale sets his book down and watches his friend flit around the cottage, unable to focus on anything for long. 

"Crowley," he interrupts a senseless string of babble the other man is muttering, something about some small job he'd been tasked with in 1924, but he'd had to take Hastur along as a babysitter and hadn't recovered since. "_Crowley_!" The demon freezes and turns toward him finally, eyes wide and distant. "I think you need to lie down. You're used to sleeping and haven't, as far as I can tell. You're _exhausted_, dear boy. And Warlock is always _particularly_ rambunctious on Mondays." 

Crowley hesitates, nods with a little deflated sigh, and turns to disappear into the bedroom. He stops just inside the ring of darkness, the heels of his snakeskin boots balanced on the line of light cast from Aziraphale's lamp, and clears his throat. The tension in the room doubles down, and then breaks with his voice, carefully soft: 

"Would you... ah, be willing to read in here? With me?" 

Aziraphale blinks, digesting the request. _For some reason, Crowley doesn't feel safe,_ he thinks. "Certainly." He gets up, brings his book. He's already in his button-down pajamas and plush socks. He stares at Crowley across the width of the double bed where the demon is letting his hair down and snapping his androgynous going-out clothes away with a grimace. He dresses down to the now-familiar Y-fronts and a fraying black tee shirt with the QUEEN logo faded on the front and crawls onto the bed, burrowing under the thick pile of blankets. The angel follows suit, settling on one side of the mattress with his head and shoulders propped against the headboard and the duvet tucked under his arms. 

Crowley twists toward him after several minutes, inching closer. He is awake, eyes barely open and unfocused in the middle-distance. "My dear, what happened?" Aziraphale finally asks, setting his book on his chest. Crowley scowls and dips his chin, refusing to meet his eyes, and for a moment Aziraphale considers picking his book back up. 

Instead, he surprises them both by shutting it and turning to face the demon on his side. They are maybe six inches apart now, at eye-level, and Aziraphale looks at the acid yellow of that gaze and holds it steady, waiting. 

"They asked for a status report and were not pleased. The kid should be doing minor magic by now, making simple things exist with a thought, good lord, making it rain when he doesn't want to go to tennis lessons, _something_. He's _too bloody normal_. I was... scolded. Reprimanded." Crowley frowns again, wincing slightly as he shuffles down the bed. 

"What did they do?" 

"What?"

"You told me once your lot _don't send rude notes_. What did they do to you?"

"Pffft. Angel, you-- you don't wanna know." There is a moment of silence while Aziraphale digests this, marking his disdain for it. He wants to know _everything_ about Crowley. Maybe not Hell, but if it affects his friend, he is concerned. 

"Is that why you're wearing a shirt?" 

Crowley freezes; it's a damning tell of his. "What." 

"You don't wear clothes to bed, or at least you haven't while you've been here with me. You're wearing a shirt. Is it because of me, because you asked me to be in here, or because of your punishment?" 

Crowley swallows, once again not exactly meeting the angel's eyeline. "Yeah. They uh. I have scales. My scales, the, uh... like when I'm a snake. Fifty years. I can't miracle them off, I've tried." 

Aziraphale frowns. "Your skin has always felt like scales," he says matter-of-factly, like he's explaining the sky is blue to a particularly obtuse person. He grips a bone-skinny wrist and pulls it up, snapping for the light (Crowley doesn't fight him in the least). But now, as he peers at the texture of goldenrod skin, he sees a small cluster of black diamonds at the soft inner elbow and gasps. 

Crowley, for his part, has turned bright red but is letting Aziraphale peer at him, turning his arm this way and that. The angel doesnt seem put off at all, actually. 

"Is there more?" He runs a finger over the small patch at the demon's tender joint, noting how it doesnt feel different at all from the surrounding skin. Crowley's skin has always been an anomaly; when he'd managed to brush it ("accidentally") in the past or shaken his hand, what have you, Aziraphale had noticed that the texture is not quite _right_. It's like Crowley doesnt exactly have a _vessel_, it's more like he's managed to forcefully shapeshift. 

Aziraphale can't help the intrusive thought that maybe that frog demon, the one who hates Crowley so much, has damp, slimy frog skin. 

"I...yes. Under my shirt. And um...elsewhere. Muh-my legs, too. And feet." 

"I'm curious. May I?" He asks, fiddling with the hem of Crowley's QUEEN tee. Crowley hesitates, holding his breath. All at once, Aziraphale vomits out, "Oh, sorry. D--don't make yourself uncomfortable on my account, of course. No, nevermind. You asked me here so you could sleep. Sorry, dear boy. Go on," the angel shakes his head at his own awkwardness and straightens back out on the bed, fumbling for his book. Crowley had half-followed him, is now propped up on his elbow, peering down. 

"No, you... you can," he mutters, reaching for an angelic hand. He places it at the edge of his shirt, pausing. Waiting to see if Aziraphale actually want to _look_. "I only kept the shirt because it's... embarrassing, I suppose. Like my eyes. I can't help it." 

"I don't think they're embarassing at all, dear. They're _you_, and I'd rather you be you than anyone else." Aziraphale says as blasé as he can manage and lifts his shirt off, taking a slow, deep breath at the lines of scales that now trace the planes of his friend's torso. Each muscle is almost outlined by a smattering of smooth, black scales, a trace under his pecs, under the ridge of collarbone, patching over the divots of his ribs.... The black has the thinnest edge of oxblood red where it meshes into the tan, golden skin of Crowley's corporation.

It's breathtaking. "Beautiful," he breathes, sitting up properly.

Aziraphale can feel Crowley tensing up under his scrutiny, though, so he reaches out, fingers hovering an inch away. "May I?" He asks again, and Crowley nods without hesitation this time. The angel carefully traces the lines of black, feels for a nonexistent transition between the colors presented there. "It's like... oh, what is that skin condition some humans have?" 

Crowley clears his throat where it's closed up. He swallows the lump of his heart gathered there, hammering, and tries again. "Vitiligo." 

"_Yes_. I expected a change in texture, but you're so _perfect_, I can't even feel it. Your back?" Blue eyes are alight with awe and curiosity, and Crowley can barely stand it. He nods and rolls away, showing the angel his back. 

It's the same here, a line down the valley of his spine, curving with muscle and sinew as Crowley resettles himself on his side. He jumps lightly when Aziraphale reaches out, tracing the darkest bit with his fingertips. _This isnt how I imagined first touching you_, he thinks. _First undressing you._

"You imagined it?" Crowley breathes, turning his face slightly to watch Aziraphale with a haunted expression. 

"How did... I did _not_ voice that." 

"Hmm. I heard it, though. Been able to hear you for ages; I wondered why you never picked up on anything I was thinking," Crowley puts a hand behind him, on Aziraphale's wrist and frowns, concentrating. 

_Can you hear me_?

"Oh dear." Aziraphale takes his hands off the demon and backs away. He thinks, hard, but Crowley just stares at him sort of sadly over one sharp shoulder, like he's been hit. "Only when we're touching, then." They come to the same conclusion as Aziraphale voices it.

"Pity. I was enjoying that." Crowley grumbles and buries his face back in the pillow, hunching up under the duvet. 

"It's not all the time, though." Aziraphale scoots closer again, hesitates at wrapping an arm around the demon, as badly as he wants to pull him close and squeeze the tension out of the other being. He goes slow, ways overcautious to a fault. "And I can't delve _in_... can you?" _I love you, please hear it...no, wait, please don't. _Crowley shakes his head, still looking at the wall. Pulled in against Aziraphale's chest, his spine slowly softens, muscles relaxing against the cushion of the bed and the thick, overwarm angel at his back, the weight of an arm over his waist, and soon, he is snoring lightly. Aziraphale smiles, so full of love he could burst, and buries his nose in the soft fire-kissed hair at the edge of his pillow. He closes his eyes and eventually nods off.

Scarcely a couple hours later, they jolt awake to the ringing of an alarm clock, warning Crowley to get out of bed and start getting ready. He hisses sharply and the alarm clock explodes. "Really, my dear?" Aziraphale sighs, rolling to his back. They had still been wound close together, but now Crowley is grumbling under the duvet in a loose fetal position, debating aloud whether the job is worth it. 

"Yes, wily demon. We have to raise the child. It's important. Up you get, I'll start the coffee." Aziraphale shoves at the lump of the other body and snorts when it shoves back, only succeeding in Crowley pushing himself the rest of the way off the bed in his retaliation. He yawns hugely and sits up, watching Crowley get up off the floor with a yawn that looks like he's unhinged his jaw to manage. 

"Mmf." Crowley scratches idly at his ribs and chest hair, sauntering away, and the angel stands bolt upright in an instant. 

"_Oh!_ Let me see you, now that it's daylight!" Aziraphale says, following the demon into the tiny loo when he tries to escape. Crowley turns bright red and manages his patience for about two minutes of scrutiny before he swats the angel away, locking the door (as if that would stop either of them, really) for good measure. 

Aziraphale makes coffee and some toast and sits at the table, reading a few more pages of his book as the now-familiar sounds of Crowley showering and dressing play in the background. 

___

"They're adding tutoring duties to my list," Crowley sighs as he slumps on the sofa at the end of the day. Warlock is six and in proper school, now, and struggling in several classes. There had been talk of hiring a tutor, and suddenly Nanny Ashtoreth's qualifications read that she'd formerly been a schoolteacher for a brief time. 

"Oh dear. So I'll be doing all his homework?" 

"Not _all_ of it." Crowley grins. The smiles come easier, these days. They're getting comfortable. "Maybe the literature. And maths." 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and deflates his overly-obese form, sloughing off the layers of khaki canvas coveralls and heavy boots until he's comfortably in his vest and trousers. Crowley's eyes linger as he removes his glasses. 

It's time to undress, remove their costumes and just be themselves with one another. 

Nanny wore slacks today, so there is no deft rolling of stockings or unbuckling garter clips, but Crowley delights in removing the bra through a sleeve and kicking off the heels, and begins digging for hairpins to let his curls down. He knows Aziraphale is watching, always watches this part. 

"Would you? I'm incredibly tired," Crowley asks, motioning to his updo. 

Aziraphale pauses, fiddling with his fingers for a second, and then comes to sit beside him on the sofa. Crowley turns away, baring his nape to "the enemy" and waits. 

The angel has _never_ been his enemy, Crowley thinks. He is sure by definition, Aziraphale would have to be frightening to him, yet Crowley has never been afraid of him. _There have been times_, he thinks while Aziraphale starts in his hair, fingers inching through the underside and slipping pins out one by one, _where I was certain we were done, that you hated me and I wouldnt come back this time. And then I did. It takes less and less time, each separation, and now we're living under the same roof. _

Fear of abandonment, of being pushed out of the only sense of warmth the demon has left is something different altogether. Aziraphale has the power to cause that, certainly. He could tell Crowley to go away, never come back. He very nearly did, when he'd asked for the Holy Water. But Crowley had thundered back i to his life, tap dancing in a church like a fool, without permission or expectation of a welcome mat, and had felt the addictive warmth from Aziraphale that night. He hadn't felt in nearly a century, was sure it was extinguished, but the angel had let him slide in close, get a silly sort of drunk, and stay the night on his sofa. 

Aziraphale hears all of this in his mind and keeps quiet, reliving the night of the bombings through Crowley's eyes. It feels sort of wrong, like spying, but he is _aching_ for a glimpse into his friend's mind, so he continues in silence. 

The curls of Crowley's silky, hellfire hair are slowly coming loose, falling in fat ringlets over the backs of Aziraphale's pale hands. He pulls at a few, letting them slip through his fingers and fall against Crowley's shoulders. 

The casual touches have gotten firmer, less hesitant. When Aziraphale pulls out the last pin out of his hair he shakes the lot of it out, laying both hands on Crowley's shoulders after, and the demon presses back with a contented hum. 

"Thank you, angel," he sighs. "Coming to bed tonight?" Crowley pitches forward and uses a hand on Aziraphale's knee to stand, stretching with a groan. 

Aziraphale does one of his little double-takes, blinking rapidly, and sighs with a smile. "If you like." 

Crowley hums, smiling back almost shyly. "I _did_ make the offer." He gets up and goes to the bedroom, undressing in the dark. Aziraphale listens to the soft thumps of clothing hitting the laundry bin and swallows slowly. 

It should be no different from any of the other times they've shared the bed in the last two years, but somehow it feels like it is. He knows his demon well, and Crowley doesn't ask unless he needs company. 

Aziraphale goes. 

Maybe he needs _proximity_, too. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more growth, a love confession, some fluff, and of course: smut.

"That was a very good chaotic decision, Warlock, dearie, but let's go back before Francis sees wha--" 

"Oi, laddie, what's all this?" Francis waved over the remains of what had once been a flourishing begonia (despite the freezing temperature and crunch of frost on the ground). Warlock had trampled it and torn it to shreds when Nanny had told him to go inside for lunch. Now it lay in a murky puddle of snow and mud. 

It would be fixed by morning, no _actual_ harm done, Aziraphale had to remind himself. He glared at the boy in disappointment. 

"Nanny said we had to go, but I was having fun!" Warlock stomped his feet and threw his new (fourth) tablet into the muddy slush. Nanny pursed her lips tight against a smile and dropped her chin. 

Warlock was such a _little shit_. Crowley loved him to pieces. 

"So instead of being nice to Nanny, who loves you very much," Francis began, kneeling in front of the boy. Crowley grimaced and looked away. "You decided to destroy one of _my_ plants which I work so hard on?" 

Warlock hesitated in his tantrum and locked eyes with Francis. He dipped his head in dismay. 

"I'm sorry, Brother Francis." He mumbled it, but the apology was there. Francis sat on his heels and beamed up at Nanny. He knew Crowley enough to be able to tell when the demon rolled his eyes even behind his glasses. 

"That's very good now, lad. Now, take your toy here and go clean up, and be good to your Nanny." He handed Warlock the muddy tablet, wiped his gloves off on his smock, and stood. "Hello, darling." 

Nanny tipped her face to him and gave Francis a wan smile. "Hiya, angel." Aziraphale reached and Crowley let himself be pulled within the angel's arms, all his concave parts closing against Francis' abundant curves. Aziraphale watched the slow swallow of his throat and cleared his own to speak. 

"Out tonight, or staying in, dearest?" 

"In, please, angel. I'm already exhausted. We can go out tomorrow, we've a long weekend to ourselves." 

"Alright, love. See you tonight, then," Francis closed their open hug, clapping one huge hand over Nanny's hip under her cloak and stretched his face up for a kiss to the demon's cheek. 

Just a shame that Crowley was already mid-movement into doing the same.

Crowley watched it happen, almost like slow motion, like he was outside of himself. He instantly froze out of panic, but Aziraphale closed the distance and kissed him on the mouth. 

It was just a peck, the most chaste of things, but Crowley immediately pulled his head back, eyes wide and alarmed. He stepped away and Aziraphale's arms fell to his sides. 

"Angel, n-not in front of the boy," he stammered, clearly scrabbling for anything to run away with. "Tonight, then," Nanny murmured softly in her lilting brogue and stalked off, dragging Warlock by the elbow into the house. 

Aziraphale stood there for a second or two more, blinking, and then sidled his way back to the cottage to hide his surely beet-red face. 

That evening, Aziraphale baked an old favorite--honey-spiced chicken--and was just finishing a simple potato side dish when Crowley jangled through the door in a jumble of sodden stockings and barely-ambulating joints. He kicked off the kitten heels and tossed the peacock umbrella toward the shoe rack along with his cloak.

“Rough afternoon, then?” the angel commented, sliding a deep glass of wine toward his counterpart. It went ignored. Crowley made a rude gesture and wriggled toward the bedroom, losing a small carpet bag and unzipping clothing as he went. Aziraphale snorted a laugh and followed, bringing their wine. He usually enjoyed Crowley's somewhat eccentric tantrums when they weren't directed at _him_.

“So he didn’t get better after his little fit in the garden, then.” Not a question, but Crowley sighed in answer all the same. Aziraphale watched (too) closely (_appreciatively, but like a man drowning for a drink in the middle of the ocean_) as Crowley stripped and threw his dress, underclothes, and stockings at the linen basket, shrugged into an old band tee shirt and some sort of soft, clingy bottoms (_joggers_, Aziraphale's lizard mind slowly supplied) and turned back toward the door. Crowley sniffed and eyed the narrow space left in the doorway between Aziraphale's hip and the doorjamb. He made no move to squeeze by, yet. 

“No, if anything he got _worse_ when Harriet told him they were going away for the weekend for a short holiday. Doesn’t like it when I don’t travel with them, I suppose. Needs someone to hang onto like a... well, like a clingy-- _thing_.” Crowley waves a hand lazily and frowns.

“You like it. Him. I can see it.” Aziraphale hands Crowley the wine and moves back into their tiny kitchen. The demon makes a disgusted noise and follows, swallowing all of the drink before they get back. His dark glasses clatter to the table. 

Crowley clunks down the empty glass and falls backward into the sofa. He snaps and the fireplace roars to life, instantly banking to a smouldering warmth. Aziraphale hums pleasantly and brings two plated meals over to their small table.

“Come here, dearest. I made your favorite. I—well, I hope it’s satisfactory, at least.” The angel flusters a bit, wiping his hands down his trousers. Crowley watches what is by now a comforting routine between them spool out, licks his lips, glances away when Aziraphale looks up.

It's snowing gently outside; too wet to stick to the ground, but it's a pretty picture out the window nonetheless. Pretty picture from the outside in, too, but that isn't visible to them right now. 

He, like the angel, is contemplating that little accidental kiss earlier. How he wishes it had been intentional. Everything has gotten weird in the last few years, sure, but it’s no less comfortable for that. The domesticity of them is grounding, for two creatures of hard-ingrained habit who—well, who habitually seek out things that are grounding. They’re both a bundle of nerves (moreso Crowley than Aziraphale on a good day) but _this_ is a whole new arena. The simple touches they used to do for show have bled into their home life. Neither of them seem terribly concerned with changing that, so Aziraphale allows himself unnecessary gestures, and in turn allows Crowley to burrow into him when they settle on the same furniture. 

That is, to say, nightly. 

It's just that neither of them had quite crossed _that line_, yet. 

Crowley clears his throat, moves to the table, picks at the chicken. It’s perfect. He says as much, and Aziraphale beams at him.

“Oh, _good_, dear boy. Thank you for saying so, even if you’re lying.”

Crowley balks with his mouth full and nearly chokes. “’M not _lying_. Dun lie to _you_.” 

Aziraphale pauses, blinking between them for a half second before taking another bite. 

"If _that_ were true, I'd know why you scuttled off this morning instead of acting like the couple we're _supposed to be_." Aziraphale speared a bite of asparagus and chicken and ate it, savoring the tang of the sauce he'd made. 

Crowley, predictably, spluttered and dropped his fork with a clatter. "I didn- I- I don't." His mouth worked but very little came out. Aziraphale continued to eat, watching with an unimpressed eyebrow arched. 

"I dunno what to say, angel. It's not like...like it freaks me out, or something." 

"Could have fooled me." Aziraphale grouses at his plate and scrapes at a chicken bone, digging for morsels. 

"I- _hush_, I... fine. Fine! You want all of it, _fine_. Sure. _Why the hell not_. I love you, I have for fucking ages. It freaked me out _a little_, because I wasn't sure you wanted that. 'M still not-- sure. We're friends, yeah? And I don't want to lose that. Angel, I ca-- I _can't_ fucking lose that." Crowley is practically wheezing, hands fisted under his armpits. His eyebrows can't seem to settle between a frown and raised indignance. 

"Why on earth would you lose that, dear boy? You're my _only friend too. _You idiot." Aziraphale adds with raised eyebrows, staring just a little too calmly at Crowley's hand which has now crash-landed on the table between their plates. He's within touching distance. Aziraphale swallows, blinks. "I'm afraid to be quite so... blatant about it, out there in the open. But I think it's no secret anymore, even to them," he lifted his eyes upward for a split second, "that I love you _much more dearly_ than I perhaps ought to. Or least by their... standards." 

Crowley didn't know what to say to that at all, so he blinked slowly at his plate and picked up his fork and went back to eating. 

Afterward, they washed their plates in semi-comfortable silence (it's fine, it's _great_!) and moved to the sofa with their wine refilled. Crowley put his bare feet on Aziraphale's lap and asked the angel to read to him, and he did, stroking the fine lines of black scales that traced bone and tendon. Crowley fell asleep quickly, and when he woke up Aziraphale was rolling him carefully onto the bed, dragging the duvet up.

Aziraphale moves to the other side, switches clothes, watches with a stupidly fond smile as Crowley wriggles and kicks off his jogging bottoms under the covers, and then finally climbs in the bed with a yawn. 

They've long since ignored the pretense of _just happening to fall asleep together_ and so, with a casual knowledge that he'd not be refused (and the now much more _intense_ news that he was loved in return), Crowley squirmed over to the angel and wrapped around his left side, tucking his face impertinently at the open neck of his pyjama top. Soon he is huffing soft snores into the angel's breast pocket. Aziraphale counts the tightly coiled muscles as they relax against him, until Crowley is fully under again and sleeping soundly. 

Aziraphale had wrapped an arm around bony shoulders and they settled against one another. From the skin contact of his collarbone and Crowley's muzzle (not to mention his hand clasped over the jut of bare hipbone) he felt the tremulous mental connection they seemed to have. He'd caught the tail end of a misty, whispered thought, something like _mine, soft, home_ as the demon nodded off, and resolved to talk to Crowley about it in the morning. Sometime after his chest stopped thundering, anyway.

* * *

When the angel woke, however, it was rather late in the morning. It was nearing eleven, in fact. He couldnt recall the last time he'd slept this late. If ever.

Crowley was clinking around softly in the kitchen, his vacant spot on the bed cooling. Aziraphale padded over to the doorway and watched as Crowley poured the kettle into the french press and waited for the grounds to steep, dark nails clicking on the countertop, before pressing down the plunger and pouring a mug of coffee for each of them. 

"Morning, angel." Crowley turned, handed him a mug of it black and then added a preposterous amount of cream and sugar to his own. 

Aziraphale came closer with a "thank you, my dear," and tipped a touch of cream into his mug. Crowley frowned at the recipe but seemed to file it away for later use. Aziraphale drank, drifted a hand thoughtlessly down Crowley's spine as he leaned against the counter and suddenly remembered:

"Oh. I keep meaning to ask about the er, _little_ _connection_ we seem to have. You said you've felt it for ages?" 

"Yeah well," Crowley shrugged, cleared his throat. "Y'know." He shifted a few inches away and then edged closer again.

Aziraphale tried very hard not to roll his eyes. "No, actually. I don't, which is why I bothered to _ask_." 

Crowley curled a lip at him and downed his drink. There was no getting ready today, they had a long weekend off, some vague dinner machinations, but nothing pending to distract himself with. He sighed and scowled at the lino. 

"My magic's stronger than yours, angel, you know that. We've known that for a while. You're a soldier, I was a healer. I've been able to...yeah, to feel it for a while, sure. Obviously when we're close, especially touching." He swipes his thumb over Aziraphale's chubby knuckles and the side of his mouth lifts imperceptibly. 

_Even you can hear it like this_ he thinks, watching the recognition flit across the angel's face. Watches the curiosity soften with pleasure. 

"Then that means--" 

"Yeah," Crowley groans through a stretch, feigning that coy swagger which Aziraphale is getting better at seeing straight through. "I know you love me. Have for a while, haven't you, angel?" 

Aziraphale scowls at his cheeky grin and huffs. "Well if you're going to be a bastard about it." 

"Nah, I was being _patient, _angel_._ Tried to press once or twice, didn't go so well. So I figured I'd take what I _did_ have, which was a good friend, and be happy with that. I know you're scared of them. Not for yourself, but me, I know." Crowley has his hands up in supplication, and Aziraphale suddenly can't stand it another moment, this gap between them. 

Aziraphale hesitates, but steps closer still, so they're nearly chest-to-chest. "If you didnt have to-- if _we_ didnt have to be careful. If this place were-- I don't know, _warded_ or something. What would you do with this long weekend?" He asks it to Crowley's mouth as he stares straight ahead at it, watching those thin, expressive lips press together as Crowley swallows and then part in a shaky answer. His eyes flick up to meet Crowley's own. _Beautiful, uncovered_, he thinks pointedly, and watches the comment flit across Crowley's face. 

"I'd take you to dinner, angel. Because you'd like it, and I-- I like watching you enjoy things. And maybe we'd come home and drink a bit, snog on the sofa. Maybe more, if you like." 

"Wine and dine me? You old sop. You bloody _romantic_." Aziraphle teases, forgetting his coffee in favor of curling a hand around Crowley's waist instead, fingers searching just at the hem of his soft tee shirt. 

Crowley is flushing red but he's not denying the accusation. That's, perhaps, a first. "What about _until_ dinner, angel?" Crowley's belly bows forward, brushing Aziraphale's as the angel tugs at his hips until they're flush together.

Aziraphale is looking up, the scant inch or so of height difference. Crowley didn't put his glasses on this morning and his eyes are catching the morning sun like stained glass. He lets that thought through as well and Crieley absutely melts against him. 

"You said snogging _later_. But... we coul--" 

Crowley strikes swiftly, sliding their mouths together and it's-- _everything_. Aziraphale's hands are gripping his hips, sliding upward firmly enough to make the demon collapse against his chest. Crowley has a hand in his hair, other fingers grasping at the nape of his neck, eyebrows knitted and creeping up his forehead in disbelief and _intense relief_. 

Aziraphale smiles into the kiss, letting Crowley push at him until the backs of his knees hit the sofa and they're tumbling onto it. "Yo-- ugh, _yes_." Crowley groans, gasping against the plush lip between his teeth when Aziraphale pulls on the backs of his knees until he's straddling the angel. 

"This, did you uh, enhance--?" Aziraphale runs his hands up over lean thighs shamelessly, gripping two firm handfuls of Crowley's suspiciously-rounded arse. It makes the demon lurch forward in surprise, though his breath quickens into Aziraphale's mouth with want. Aziraphale feels the steel bar of his cock between their bellies, trapped and hot behind the red piping of his Y-fronts. His own Effort pulses in response, decidedly interested in the weight leaning down on it. 

"Just a-- _fuck_, a bit." 

"Do you want--" Aziraphale loosens one hand and drifts it forward, unable to detach their mouths fully, but curious for the heft of Crowley's cock in his hand. 

"Christ, I-- I don--!" Crowley stammers, his hips stuttering as Aziraphale gives him the heel of his hand to rut against. All of his breath leaves him in a gust. 

They're both still clothed in their pajamas (but Crowley only wore his y-fronts and a tee shirt, after all). He dives for Aziraphale's buttons immediately. They kiss for what must be hours, hands trailing and slowly undressing. Crowley's reptilian brain is halfway certain that he'd accidentally stopped time, that the only thing moving in England was the two of them against one another on this sofa. The next errant thought that follows is: he completely forgot he could simply miracle their clothes away. 

"Fuck. What do you want, angel? Tell me." They are both finally, _finally_ naked and flushed against the other, panting into the other's mouth as their human bodies writhe in a motion as old as life itself. Crowley has a hand between them, rubbing his thumb into the clear slick beading at the tip of the angel's short, fat cock. His mouth is watering, tongue forking down the middle as his nerves fray and he loses a bit of control over his corporation. He's waiting for an answer. 

Similarly, Aziraphale has a pudgy hand below, making a soft, warm channel for Crowley to thrust into as they grind together. He tugs at the foreskin lazily, watching Crowley's brows knit when the sharp sensation spears through his abdomen. 

"Let's come now, together, dear boy. We can go for a nibble, proper date, and return later. And then, dear boy, I'd like to fuck you in our bed until the Dowlings return on Tuesday." He grins against Crowley's mouth when the demon's brain audibly fizzles out. 

"Wh-whaaaa--"

"Amenable?" He teases, catching the callus on his thumb against Crowley's frenulum. Tight abs ripple against his rotund belly; it feels _unbelievable_.

Their thoughts have been mingling back and forth, both an open book as they read the other through a haze of pleasure. Aziraphale (bit of a bastard that he is) allows a detailed mental image to filter through of what he's described and Crowley quakes against him, undone and falling apart. 

"Yes, _g--someone_ please, _yes angel_, just like--jus' like _that_." The demon's eyes are as dilated as Aziraphale's ever seen them, the sulphrous yellow edging outward just a bit, bleeding out from the burnished copper circle Crowley reigns them into.

"Hmm," comes the reply, and Aziraphale tightens his grip, using the other hand to wind his fingers in Crowley's hair and yank him into a deep kiss. His tongue laves over the demon's, taste buds scraping against one another and then, just as his tongue is retreating, flicking up against hard palate and teasing behind the sharpness of Crowley's canines, the demon shouts into him and comes. His hand spasms around Aziraphale's girth, painting it and their bellies with white globs of come before he pulls away, still shaking a bit, to sink to his knees between the angel's spread thighs. 

"Please, you now, angel." Crowley mutters and puts the flattened halves of his tongue out against the crown of Aziraphale's cock, his hand working the angel at a feverish pace. The twin tips of his tongue arch up, cup the head perfectly against the flat of the rest of his tongue and at the sight Aziraphale gently tips his hips once, twice, and is coming on Crowley's outstretched tongue with a groan.

Crowley drinks him down, closing his mouth around the oversensitive tip and licks it clean with a twist of muscle Aziraphale can't quite understand. He shudders away, instead tugging insistently at Crowley's arms until the demon crawls back up to lay on him again. 

They bask, that's the only word for it. Aziraphale shimmies them down flat along the sofa, their feet tangled on the far arm and his head on the other. Crowley's body is on top if him, weighing them into the cushions. His head is pillowed on Aziraphale's chest, breath skimming across his throat while the angel plays with his hair. Their skin keeps their mental link open and Aziraphale closes his eyes, watches the swirls of pleasure and warmth flow between their contented minds. 

Eventually, Aziraphale's corporation betrays him. His stomach growls, too used to regular feedings.

Crowley snorts and runs a hand over his belly fondly. He shifts his weight, starting to move away, peeling their skin apart where sweat has sealed them together. "'Spose it's time for our date, angel." He puts out a hand and and Aziraphale takes it, levering himself up. His skin is suddenly cold where Crowley had been laying on him, and he shivers slightly. 

Crowley's already in the toilet, running the shower to warm it. He seems like a weight has been lifted, and is smiling softly. Aziraphale is drawn to it like a moth. He leans on the doorjamb and lets his eyes wander over Crowley where he's sitting on the ledge of the tub.

A few more scaly patches have emerged under his jaw, at the joint of ear and throat. Aziraphale has thought for months now how he would love to wipe the makeup away, kiss that spot of black. 

"Nothing stopping you," Crowley murmurs, peeking over his shoulder as he stands to get in the shower. 

Aziraphale blinks, caught out, and huffs a laugh as he steps forward. Crowley sits still and let's Aziraphale step up close behind, wrapping his arms around and pressing his mouth to that new sweet spot. The demon melts a bit and leans into the angel's hold. Too soon, though, he slips away.

"Coming in? 'M just gonna rinse off, I got a bit sticky." Crowley has disappeared behind the shower curtain, his profile made fuzzy by the texture of it. 

"Is there room, uh, for us both?" Aziraphale hesitates, peering inside. 

"Of course." Crowley replies and angles the showerhead so the spray hits Aziraphale in the chest when he steps in. He reaches automatically for Crowley, who obligingly leans in for a kiss. He rinses and hands Aziraphale the soap, smearing some lather playfully over Aziraphale's sticky groin. "Gotta get ready, angel. Dinner first, yeah?" 

Aziraphale can already feel the stirrings of arousal curling between them. He's loathe to let go of Crowley but agrees that dragging out the timid romance spooling between them will make their coming together this evening even more rapturous. 

"Mm. Yes, alright." He lets Crowley slip away and washes himself, probably smiling stupidly at the tiles as he hears a muttered "_shit"_ in the next room. When he emerges, patting himself dry, Crowley is sat on the bed in his pants and socks, obviously thinking over what he wants to wear. Maybe he's in a bit of a daze, still. Aziraphale knows how he feels. 

They both snap and are clothed in typical wear: Crowley in tight black jeans and a deep red thermal Henley, Aziraphale in his favorite linen trousers and a pale blue shirt. He opts for a creme cable knit cardigan instead of his waistcoat. Crowley is staring at him, a bit soft around the edges. He sniffs and stands abruptly. 

"I called for the car. It should be outside." 

"Alright. Where are you wanting to go? The Ritz is a bit far. London, I suppose, is a bit far for dinner." 

"Too far for the ride back, maybe." Croeley grins with too many teeth, knowing exactly the issue, there. 

Aziraphale swallows, blinks. "W--yes. I suppose it is." 

"Local, then?" 

"Local." Aziraphale nods. "There was that nice little Indian spot in town, we enjoyed that last time. Or the Italian place, we haven't tried yet." 

"Italian, seems romantic. That?" 

"Certainly, darling." 

They nod in agreement and take the car; Crowley drives them to the smallish suburb nearby, only a few minutes off the estate. The Italian restaurant is one in a strip, but it has it's own parking which is novel. They are sat in a corner by the wide window with a little candle burning orange between them, and the snow outside paints a lovely picture. 

Aziraphale watches the shadows from the candle on Crowley's cheekbones and barely glances at the menu. In fact, Crowley orders for them, his fingertips mingling with the angel's on their knees beneath the table. Wine steamed oysters for starters, a sun- dried- tomato basil pesto penne with seared chicken and asparagus tips, crusty bread and herbed oils and aged balsamic for dipping. He picks at the oysters and watches Aziraphale eat the rest, nursing a glass of red. He accepts a few bites of pasta twirled his way (Aziraphale, as a rule, does not share. You take what is offered because the gesture, when it comes, is genuine), but is, for the most part, relaxed against his side of the booth. 

"Afters?" The waiter prompts as he tops up their glasses and clears empty plates. 

Crowley levels his gaze on Aziraphale, who gives him the slightest dastardly look in return and tips his smile up to the waiter. "No, thank you, we've afters waiting for us at home." 

The waiter good naturedly winks and shuffles off with the bill and Crowley's shiny black card while the demon himself tries his damnedest to remain in the upright and locked position. 

He'd nearly melted into a snake and slithered off at that comment. Surely no one was stupid enough to overlook the _implication_ in that sentence. 

"You utter bastard." He says instead, striving for calm and collected and hitting somewhere east of it instead. Aziraphale simply smirks back at him and signs the receipt when it's laid out.

They're good at forging one another's signatures by now, human names or otherwise.

Crowley leads them to the car, and they make the short trip back to their garden cottage. 

He barely shuts the door behind their hunched, snow-dusted shoulders when Aziraphale has got him by the scruff, slamming his shoulderblades into the wood as he lifts Crowley by the arse and wraps his calves around back. 

"We're _not_ going to be able to go out if you continuously look _as soppy as possible_ across the table at me," the angel grits out, bringing their mouths together just as Crowley's getting his wits in order for a cutting retort. He finds it vacuumed out of his lungs, though, the complaint dying on his tongue as Aziraphale sucks on it, grinding their pelvises together. 

"Bed," he manages on a gasp, clicking his fingers until they're naked and he's being carried off by the angel as if he weighs absolutely nothing instead of a solid twelve stone.

Maybe he squeaks a little, wraps his limbs around the angel a bit tighter in response to being carried (and the rounded, angelic teeth buried in the meat of his neck) but Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice. Crowley lands on the bed with a bounce that is stopped short by the solid weight of Aziraphale on top of him. 

"Your turn. What do you want, my love?" Aziraphale rubs his hands all over, cupping his neck and running a thumb over the wet patch he left there. Soft hands glide down, tracing all the scaly, marked bits of him until he's got his thumbs hooked over the knobby rise of hip bones below. "Crowley." 

Crowley blinks slow, swallows the lump of his heart in his throat. "I-- uh. Any of it, anything you wanna give, angel. I'll take it. Or give it, if you prefer that way." Aziraphale ducks down with a soft smile and licks into his mouth again. 

"Which do you prefer?" He plants a soft kiss on the bow of Crowley's upper lip. The demon gasps, squirms a bit.

"Hmmm. I dun-- you said you'd fuck me til the humans came home." 

"Well, yes, and I still would like to. But that doesnt necessarily mean only _one direction_, dear boy. I could ride you, have you in my mouth. Lay back and let you do the work for both of us. Or I could bury myself in your throat, make you take all of it. Pin you down and bring you to the edge over and over until you're shaking with it, til you're begging for release. Or lay on you, like this, kiss every square inch until you can't stand the love I'm sowing under your skin anymore. Maybe you'll rut against me til you come, or maybe I'll switch for the female model, let you slide in nice and wet." 

Aziraphale sets his teeth to Crowley's skin and smiles wide at the faint gurgling the poor demon emits. Crowley's shaking under him, trembling with need and love and lust and so many emotions he might explode. He digs his nails into Aziraphale's back, clinging. 

"Any of it, _fuck_, angel where the 'eaven did you learn to talk like that?" Crowley groans, shimmying his hips until he's spread out under Aziraphale, reaching down to palm their cocks together. The angel sighs against him, sagging a bit with need to be pressed as close as he can, finally, to Crowley. He thrusts his hips gently forward, sucking a bottom lip in between his teeth. 

"You slept for a long time and I got bored," the angel comments, bringing down a miracle. A bottle of lubricant falls into his palm. Crowley's head falls back on the pillow and his torso squirms a bit, eager and unbelievably turned on. 

He hasn't been this desperately hard in all his life, and it's entirely because he's finally, _finally_ under Aziraphale. Exactly where he wants to be, touching the angel, recieving his attention. 

Aziraphale ducks down, puts his lips to the wet tip of Crowley's cock where it's winking out of the foreskin there. He laps at it, tasting the salty burst on his tongue just as Crowley whimpers and twitches his hips. 

"Gah-grrrggglllk," he whines, fisting hands in the sheets to avoid tearing at Aziraphale's curls. The angel, in answer, rolls the tip if his finger over Crowley's tight entrance, massaging and then slipping inside as he ruts into it, sliding his cock along Aziraphale's tongue and dropping down on his finger. "Mah-_more_, please angel I can take it." 

Oblingingly, Aziraphale snugs a second finger in with the first and allows Crowley to use his hand to pleasure himself. Too soon, perhaps, he is scrabbling at Aziraphale's shoulders trying to drag the angel up. 

"C'mere, A-hhng, 'Zira, get that in me, please, I can't--" Crowley is trembling, trying to reach between them to get the angel's cock where he wants it. Aziraphale lets him, scooting closer and holding onto lean thighs as the demon breaches himself with Aziraphale's fat, blunt cock, and tugs the angel closer with his heels.

They rock and glide a bit until he sinks past the second ring of muscle and it's a smooth plunge to the end. Crowley's jaw drops open on a silent cry, head thrown back as he breathes in to adjust. Aziraphale holds his weight off the demon, waiting, watching his face closely for every tremor of pleasure or pain.

He finds only paradise. 

Aziraphale bends an arm, hooks a knobby knee over his elbow and bends Crowley nearly in half. He pulls out a bit, maybe halfway, and thrusts experimentally in. Crowley gasps out a gurgled but very pleased noise and reaches between th to palm himself. 

"Oh, angel, ffffuuck. You feel _sssso_ good. Like that, please. You can go harder, I won't brea--break," he says into the heavy air between their chins, each breathing the other's air as Aziraphale slowly sets a pace and then adds a brutal snap to his hips that is heaving Crowley up the bed in increments. 

Crowley is a talker; he has never been one for shutting up, but by the time he is spurting over his fist and belly he is without words. He is very nearly without thought. The connection between them is swirls of color and texture, interspersed with words like _soft skin_ and _sweaty_ and _like that, more, yes_. 

Aziraphale stutters to a halt as deep as he can go, his own climax shaking through his muscles until his arms go. Crowley pulls him down, vanishes the sticky mess between their skin, and curls up under the weight of his best friend. His feet are dangling somewhere over Aziraphale's cheeks, toes growing cold in the open air. He must have thought about it, because Aziraphale pulls out with a sympathetic wince and lays beside Crowley, dragging up a plush blanket for them to snuggle under. 

Tomorrow (or maybe it can wait when the Dowlings return in a few days) is for worrying about the what's and hows of what they're doing. 

_Tonight_ is for being with the one you love, and they are living for tonight. 


End file.
